18. Maverick
MAVERICK
NO PLAN
It was hard as fuck putting on a normal facade when I got home this evening, especially throughout dinner.
I spent the day at the FBI resident agency office, combing through the photos and videos Evie took of Clara’s apartment. We went over everything, searching for the smallest clue, but—of course—we came up empty-handed. This motherfucker is good; he left nothing behind.
Nothing except a single, deliberate message meant to instill fear.
A printed picture, tucked beneath Clara’s comforter. He must have placed it there when he made the bed, hoping she’d find it. He wanted her to know she’s still in his crosshairs.
It was a picture of Clara—asleep, curled into a ball, with only a thin blanket covering her. The shot was zoomed in, concealing any details about where she had been held, but the tear stains streaking her cheeks were unmistakable.
It hurt just to look at it. Still, hours later, it torments me.
Arlo and Spencer suspect the picture is a still from a video. The thought chills my fucking blood. That would mean he has a video—maybe multiple—of Clara in captivity. And if he has one of her, he has them of his other victims, too.
Now, from the dim hallway, I watch Clara in silence. She doesn’t realize I’ve been standing here, observing as she moves from door to window, checking and rechecking every lock in the main house. She didn’t go into my room—I would’ve known—but I’d bet she went everywhere else.
The anxiety is written in the tight set of her shoulders, the restless way her fingers linger on each lock. How did I miss this? I knew she wasn’t okay, but she really isn’t okay.
“It’s all locked up, sunshine,” I say finally, keeping my voice low, careful not to startle her. “You’re safe here.”
She meets my gaze, hesitating before offering a small nod. I wouldn’t let anything happen to her. I hope she knows that. But I don’t think she believes she’s safe.
“Goodnight,” she whispers as she passes me, heading straight for her bedroom.
Juno follows her, but a snap of my fingers has him returning to my side.
A blood-curdling scream shatters my sleep.
Within moments, I’m out of bed, gun in hand, sprinting toward Clara’s room with Juno close behind. I shove the door open, momentarily blinded by the sudden flood of light. Blinking past it, I scan the room before rushing to her side. “Clara?”
She’s still in bed, thrashing against the sheets, her face twisted in anguish and soaked with tears. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, ragged gasps escaping between the screams. She’s trapped in a nightmare—drowning in it.
I don’t want to startle her, but I can’t just stand here and watch. Moving on instinct, I secure my gun in the firearm safe inside her nightstand, then reach out, running a soothing hand along her arm. “Clara. Sunshine, it’s me.”
She startles at my touch, her wide, terror-filled eyes locking onto mine. “Mav?”
“You’re safe, sunshine. It was just a nightmare.” As if to reinforce my words, Juno leaps onto the bed and curls up at her feet, his solid weight grounding her.
She scrubs at her face, but keeps her hands up to hide her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice small and fragile.
“Don’t,” I say firmly. “Nothing to be sorry for. Are you okay? Juno can stay with you if you want.”
A beat of silence. Then, so softly I almost miss it, “Will you stay, too?”
I hesitate, but only for a second. “Yeah, sunshine. I’ll stay. Do you want the light off?” The question is barely out of my mouth before Clara shakes her head profusely.
“Okay, okay. Lights on.” I climb in beside her, staying above the comforter, careful to give her space.
Lying on my side, I study her face—the tightness around her eyes and mouth, the tears clinging to her lower lashes, the beads of sweat gathered around her hairline.
My heart breaks for this woman and everything she’s been through.
The urge to hold her, to comfort her, is overwhelming. Damn near impossible to ignore.
“Is it okay if I hold you?” I watch her closely, waiting for permission. When she nods, I pull her gently into my chest, wrapping my arms around her. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Clara’s silent long enough that I think she won’t answer, but then, in a broken whisper, she recounts her nightmare—or fucked up memory.
“Sometimes, on shower days, he wouldn’t just watch me.
He’d take the soap from me and wash my body and hair.
When I didn’t say ‘thank you,’ he told me he’d beat proper manners into me.
And he did. That’s where I was… One time, I made him so angry, he threw me across the room.
Like a rag doll.” She sniffles and exhales shakily.
“He always tried to ‘make it up to me’ afterwards—being sweet, thinking that touching me would make it better. Every time I close my eyes, he’s there.
I can’t escape him, Mav. I don’t want to sleep.
I’m constantly on edge, worried he’ll come for me, so I check the locks and windows all the time. All the freaking time.”
Fucking hell.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Clara.” I press a kiss to her head and rub soothing circles on her upper arm. “You’re not alone, you hear? I’ll help you any and every way I can. I’ll have a security system installed tomorrow.”
“You don’t hav?—”
“I know I don’t have to, sunshine, but I’m going to.
I’m surprised this place doesn’t have one already.
” I pause for a moment, wondering if the suggestion on the tip of my tongue might cross a line.
“Have you, uh… Have you thought about talking to someone? You’ve been through a lot, and I can only imagine what you’re going through now.
I know a few therapists, and you could meet with them virtually. ”
Once again, Clara’s silence is long, but eventually, I feel her nod against my arm. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.” I squeeze her tightly before loosening my hold, resisting the urge to nuzzle against her neck. “Sleep.”
Sunshine,
I didn’t want to wake you. Coffee’s in the pot, just have to turn it on. I’ll bring dinner home. Text if you need anything.
-Mav
Home .
It’s been a long fucking time since I told someone I’d bring dinner home—since I walked through the door to find someone other than Juno waiting for me. Seven years, to be exact. But, for some reason, going home to Clara doesn’t just feel different. It feels right.
I blink, shoving thoughts of her and last night aside. Shifting my focus to the present, I scan the conference room—the entire task force is here. It’s time to concentrate on finding this son of a bitch before he finds her.
“Multiple jurisdictions are making this case difficult to solve and pin down,” Cruz admits. “We’re communicating with law enforcement in Illinois, Wisconsin, and Iowa, cross-referencing the evidence we have with theirs, but that’s seven fucking police departments. It’s messy.”
“And a lot of surveillance to sift through, especially because we weren’t able to nail down the exact time, date, and location for when some of the victims went missing,” Arlo adds.
Clearing my throat, I tap my fingers against the table three times.
“Clara told me something last night,” I begin, locking eyes with Cruz—he’s been the most vocal about how bad of an idea it is to have her with me—before surveying the rest of the team.
“She said he would hurt her if she didn’t say ‘thank you,’ that he’d beat ‘proper manners’ into her. ”
Spencer leans forward in his chair, fingers flying across his keyboard. “I’m going to add that to the report. I’ve been in touch with Special Agent Brenner at BAU; I’m sending a request for a criminal profile.”
“Think he’d be willing to come down here?” Riley asks. “And how the hell can we get another whiteboard? This one’s full.” She points to the evidence board, overflowing with photos, maps, strings, and pins. “We’re going to need another one to lay out the criminal profile.”
“I’ll go hunt one down!” Jesse’s already halfway out of the room before any of us can say anything. He’s never been one for long team meetings. His home is the lab, where he’s on his feet and lost in his element. I’m not surprised he’s the one who volunteered .
“I’ll ask Brenner if he’ll come down, but I don’t know if he will.
” Spencer presses his lips together in thought before gesturing to the evidence board’s timeline.
“According to his established pattern, our unsub finds his next victim while he has the current one in captivity. He should’ve taken someone else by now.
We have every police department on alert for missing persons reports fitting the victim profile, but none have come in. ”
“Clara’s survival messed up his plans.”
Spencer nods. “And he’s methodical. He plans everything—the disguise he’ll use for each victim, the traps he’ll set, where he’ll keep them, where he’ll bury them. Every detail is calculated. But I don’t think he’s taken his next victim yet. And I don’t think he will—not as long as Clara’s alive.”
“We need to lure him out.”